The  STORY  OF   LIZZIE   McGUIRE 


LIZZIE  McGuiRE. 


OF 


LIZZIE    McGUIRE 


BY   HERSELF 


HENRY    A.  DICKERMAN    &   SON 

PUBLISHERS 
BOSTON   AND    NEW  YORK 


COPVRJGHT   igoj 
BY 

HENRY  A.  DICKERMAN  &  SON 


SO 
MY    GREAT    SNAKES 


JULY   ONE 


CHELSEA,  MASS. 
July  i,  1902. 

I  have  decided  to  put  down  in  my  diary  a  full 
account  of  myself  and  my  feelings,  for  I  am  queer. 

I  am  queer,  very  queer.  Some  folks  think  I  am 
nutty. 

I  am  a  sweet,  dear  maiden  of  thirty-five  sum- 
mers, and  I  have  lived  in  Chelsea  all  my  life. 
Surely,  that  is  enough.  I  need  not  add,  after  tell- 
ing that,  that  my  parallel  cannot  be  found  on  earth 
to-day. 

Think  of  it.    Thirty-five  years  —  and  in  Chelsea. 

Pity  me,  Great  Snakes,  pity  me. 

My  young  heart  is  bursting  its  suspender  but- 
tons, and  all  because  I  have  been  confined  to  the 
barren  wastes  of  my  native  burg. 

No  kind  young  man  has  ever  suggested  that  he 
become  my  Great  Snake. 

No  kind  young  man  has  ever  suggested  that  he 


10       The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

bear  me  off  on  horseback  to  a  four-roomed  flat  and 
an  oil  stove. 

I  am  convinced  of  this,  and  it  has  made  me 
queer, —  almost  bughouse. 

I  have  a  marvellous  capacity  for  beefsteak  and 
onions. 

I  am  broad-gauged ;  and,  if  you  do  not  believe 
me,  have  a  look  at  my  photograph  on  the  fly  page. 

Unlike  my  predecessors,  I  am  not  a  philosopher 
of  any  very  pathetic  school. 

I  am  a  philosopher  of  my  own  make,  because, 
like  others,  I  need  the  money. 

Money  is  dirty  stuff  to  handle ;  but  I  am  willing 
to  take  a  chance,  as  do  the  rest  of  you. 

I  care  for  neither  good  nor  bad  (money),  if  I  can 
pass  it  on  the  electric  cars. 

I  have  what  I  call  a  NIT  conscience. 

I  am  not  exactly  daffy  over  the  subject  of  my- 
self, but  still  I  do  not  mind  saying  that  I  am  one 
of  the  best  ever. 

I  have  a  bunch  of  friends  in  Chelsea,  and  I  have 
looked  them  over  pretty  thoroughly.  But  in  vain. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire       11 

I  cannot  find  any  one  whom  I  can  call  my  parallel. 
There  are  those  of  varying  depths  and  widths,  but 
they  are  not  in  my  class.  I  trot  in  the  two  hun- 
dred and  ninety  pound  class,  and  none  of  the  vil- 
lagers over  our  way  can  tip  the  scales  at  my  figure. 
I  have  a  depth  and  width  all  my  own.  The  gang 
all  pass  me  their  gosh  darned  smiles  because  I  am 
such  a  heavy  husky  maiden. 

There  are  about  forty  or  fifty  of  these  con- 
founded idiots. 

I  have  dipped  into  literature  in  my  endeavor  to 
find  my  parallel,  and  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  it 
is  in  Katie  Rooney  who  wrote  "  A  Lovely  Pair  of 
Arms ;  or,  How  would  you  like  to  be  the  Ice- 
man?" 

Katie  and  I  have  lots  of  moods  and  feelings  in 
common. 

I  often  feel  like  Katie  did  when  she  penned 
those  immortal  lines,  "  Love  is  like  a  Dago.  It 
comes  up  and  hits  you  when  you  are  not  looking." 

I  see  from  those  words  that  Kate  had  groped  in 
darkness.  Her  fresh  young  soul  pined  for  a 


12      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

realization  of  her  dreams.  Her  heart  had  been 
pierced  by  all  the  heavy  emotions  of  this  cruel, 
black  world. 

Or  she  had  dyspepsia.     I  am  not  sure  which. 

But  I  am  a  genius,  and  don't  you  forget  it. 

I  do  not  dare  to  get  too  far  from  the  subject  of 
myself  for  any  length  of  time  for  fear  that  you 
may  mislay  the  fact  that  I  am  the  whole  thing. 

I  was  born  in  Chelsea,  Mass.,  in  1867;  and,  if 
the  town  does  not  live  to  shake  hands  with  itself 
when  I  move,  then  Great  Snakes  deliver  it. 

All  of  my  family  were  Irish. 

So  am  I. 

The  only  days  in  my  life  when  the  barrenness  of 
Chelsea  has  seemed  to  brighten  up  and  get  a  move 
on  it  has  been  the  thirty  St.  Patrick  Days  that  I 
can  vividly  recall. 

My  brother  is  a  bar-tender,  and  my  sister  makes 
sandwiches  for  a  lunch-counter  in  Boston. 

There  is  no  bond  of  any  sort  between  me,  Lizzie 
McGuire,  and  my  brother  and  sister. 

The  only  tie  I  can  think  of  is  a  note  of  my 
brother's  that  I  hold  for  sixty-three  dollars. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      13 

Oh,  how  my  little,  thirty-five  year  old  maiden 
heart  yearns  for  recognition ! 

Oh,  if  my  sister  —  she  of  my  own  flesh  and 
blood  —  would  come  to  me  and  understand  me! 
If  she  would  come  and  throw  her  arms  around  me, 
and  let  our  sisterly  love  grow  warm  1 

But  she  does  not  do  it. 

And,  oh,  if  my  brother  would  come  to  me  and 
understand  me  I  If  he  would  come  and  say, 
"  Here,  Liz.  Here  is  that  sixty-three  "  ! 

But  he  does  not  do  it. 

Is  it  because  I  am  the  genius  of  the  family? 
Or  is  it  because  I  am  easy  ? 

I  am  beginning  to  think  it  is  because  Brother 
Bill  is  a  genius. 


JULY   TWO 


July  2. 

Among  other  things  I  have,  in  my  own  bright, 
little  way,  learned  how  to  feed  myself  and  enjoy 
myself  during  the  process. 

I  am  a  rattling  good  feeder,  with  a  capital  "  F." 

It  takes  a  genius  to  know  how  to  eat ;  and  my 
healthy,  fat  thirty-five  years  knows  it  all  in  the  eat- 
ing line,  and  don't  you  forget  that. 

I  am  now  an  Ai  feeder,  and  can  finish  any  old 
thing  in  the  food  line  in  short  order. 

My  philosophy  of  eating  is  extremely  easy  and 
simple,  and  you  need  not  be  in  the  gray-haired 
forties  or  fifties  to  become  one  of  my  disciples. 

The  art  of  feeding  revolves  around  two  points : 
feed  whenever  you  get  the  chance,  and  take  as  large 
bites  as  your  mouth  can  hold,  comfortably  or  other- 
wise. 

In  this  way  you  can  eat  beef  quickly,  and  get 
ahead  of  the  rise  in  prices. 


18       The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Down  with  the  Beef  Trust,  I  say ;  and  the  only 
way  to  down  it  is  to  eat  fast  and  much. 

There  are  those  who  eat  and  drink  for  the  sake 
of  eating  and  drinking.  They  are  soubrettes. 

But  I  have  learned  one  particular  art  of  which  I 
am  proud.  It  has  strengthened  my  opinion  that 
I  am  a  genius. 

I  have  learned  how  to  eat  a  sausage. 

I  place  two  five-inch  gray  sausages  on  my  plate 
before  me.  (In  selecting  sausages,  always  see  that 
they  are  fitted  with  gray  tights.) 

I  contemplate  them. 

They  make  me  think  at  once  of  the  Dog  Show, — 
where  the  dog  biscuit  and  the  brass  collar  are  the 
emblems ;  of  the  bench  show  where  lines  of  stalls 
flank  the  long  hallways ;  of  yelps  such  as  only  the 
hungry  fox  terrier  can  emit ;  of  the  pound  where 
are  held  the  mongrels  of  the  city  —  and  of  the 
doubtful  butchers. 

The  mere  sight  of  a  sausage  does  tricks  with  my 
mind. 

I  poke  the  south-eastern  corner  of  the  sausage 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      19 

nearest  me  with  my  fork,  and  with  my  knife  I  jab 
it  as  nearly  in  the  centre  as  possible.  Then  with 
my  right  hand,  or  paw,  as  my  genius  dictates  that  I 
say,  I  raise  it  to  my  lips  and  carefully  insert  it 
between  my  two  rows  of  white  store  teeth  (bought 
for  $4.98  per  set,  with  teeth  extracted  without  pain, 
free  of  charge). 

Gee  1  How  happy  I  am  when  I  chew  that  ten- 
der old  sausage. 

I  think  of  the  adorable  lines  of  an  old  German 
poet :  "  Oh,  vere,  oh,  vere,  is  my  leedle  dog  gone  ? 
Oh,  vere,  oh,  vere,  can  he  be  ? " 

"  Ah  !  dear,  old,  indigestible  Seinerwurst"  I  say, 
"what  t'ell  do  I  care  if  you  do  give  me  a  pain 
across  the  middle  ?  I  am  game,  I  am." 

The  half  of  sausage  then  slips  down  my  little 
red  lane  and  into  my  stomach,  where  it  is  greeted 
by  the  glad  hand.  My  stomach  is  dead  game,  too, 
and  would  not  let  on  to  a  sausage  that  it  could  not 
digest  it.  My  stomach  is  the  stomach  of  a  genius, 
and  there  are  only  a  few  like  us.  Let  me  tell  you. 
The  philosophy  of  my  stomach  may  be  summed  up 


20      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

in  the  words  of  itself,  which  are  :  "  If  Lizzie  likes 
it,  then  I'll  try  my  best." 

You  can  see  that  my  stomach  is  subservient  to 
my  palate,  as  all  geniuses'  stomachs  should  be. 

My  fork  grabs  another  half  of  the  beautiful, 
round  gray  sausage. 

Oh  1     Such  ecstasy  ! 

And  thus  I  push  the  remaining  three  pieces  of 
sausage  into  my  face ;  and,  as  the  last  half  slides 
through  my  gullet,  my  character  changes. 

Have  I  eaten  too  fast  or  too  much  ? 

Neither,  surely. 

But,  somehow  or  other,  I  have  what  common 
folks  call  a  pain. 

And  a  confounded  painful  pain,  too. 

My  festive  stomach  lifts  up  a  silent  cuss  word 
or  two,  directed  toward  Simms,  the  butcher. 

There  seems  to  be  nothing  doing  in  the  digest- 
ing line  in  little  Lizzie's  stomach. 

I  put  my  feet  on  the  mantel-piece.  The  entire 
world  is  now  one  great  big  sausage,  and  I  feel  that 
I  am  slowly  slipping  off  it.  My  mind  is  capable 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      21 

of  conceiving  but  one  idea, —  that  confounded 
sausage. 

I  know  now,  Great  Snakes,  where  to  find  that 
damnation  you  have  told  me  so  much  about. 

All  I  have  to  do  is  to  look  at  a  sausage,  and  I 
get  the  cramps. 

You  can  bet  all  that  is  coming  to  you  that  the 
fellow  who  said  that  life  is  a  tragedy  had  eaten 
sausages  before  he  said  it. 

As  the  years  pass,  I  shall  put  away  sausages 
under  my  belt ;  and  after  each  good  eat  I  shall,  no 
doubt,  have  a  good  old-fashioned  pain  like  mother 
used  to  have. 

For  this  is  the  art  of  feeding. 

And  meanwhile  give  me  the  adorable  gray  sau- 
sage that  the  Beef  Trust  cannot  touch. 

Hurrah  for  sausages ! 


JULY    THREE 


July  3. 

Sometimes,  when  I  wander  out  around  this  tired 
old  village  of  Chelsea,  I  fall  into  a  half-dazed,  half- 
comatose  condition,  and  my  wonderful  mind  takes 
excursion  trips  to  distant  lands. 

To-day  it  went  to  Revere  Beach,  at  reduced 
rates. 

There  I  saw  the  long,  curved  beach,  with  its 
pebbles,  its  sand,  its  tin  cans,  and  its  castaway 
lunch  boxes.  The  adorable  scent  of  roasting  pea- 
nuts and  popping  corn  was  wafted  against  my  deli- 
cate nostrils.  The  groaning,  straining  melody  of  a 
merry-go-round  organ  played  ecstatically  upon  my 
sensitive  ear-drums.  There  I  heard  the  grinding 
rattle  of  the  steeplechase  horses,  reminding  me, 
and  tearing  my  stout,  thirty-five-year-old  heart  with 
the  thought  of  the  daring  young  man  who  has 
never  suggested  to  me  that  I  fly  away  with  him  on 
horseback. 


26      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Oh,  such  a  beautiful  ocean,  too  ! 

How  many  Venuses  have  come  out  onto  that 
beach !  How  many  graceful  fairies,  with  peroxide 
hair  and  pencilled  goo-goos,  have  never  dared  to 
touch  those  beautiful,  briny,  busily  babbling  wave- 
lets as  they  dash  up  in  breakers  six  inches  high ! 
How  many  of  these  damsels  of  the  chorus  have 
feared  to  lave  in  that  great,  grand,  glorious  ocean, 
lest  their  bathing  costumes  might  fade  and  their 
cheeks  lose  their  rosy  hue  ! 

I  stood  on  the  beach,  and  took  a  look  at  that  old 
ocean,  dreaming  sweet  dreams. 

But  my  dreams  were  shattered  by  an  urchin 
who  ran  wildly  from  the  waters,  yelling,  "  Hully 
Gee  1  Dat's  cold,  dat  water  is." 

I  walked  on  a  little  way. 

Then  I  stood  still. 

"This  is  the  gateway  to  that  fool-killer,  the 
Loop,"  I  muttered  to  myself.  "  I  am  a  fool.  Yes, 
frankness  is  one  of  the  marks  of  my  genius.  I  am 
a  fool.  So  I  will  hie  me  in,  spend  my  nickel,  and 
loop  the  Loop." 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      27 

I  went  up  and  bought  a  ticket,  and  entered  the 
enclosure  by  a  gate  that  was  two  sizes  too  small 
for  one  of  my  broad  gauge. 

Finally,  I  did,  by  hard  pushing,  manage  to  pop 
through  the  aperture ;  and,  as  I  landed  within,  a 
smile,  a  heavenly,  beauteous  smile  floated  across 
my  fair,  cherry  lips. 

Oh,  how  I  smiled  ! 

In  fact,  I  almost  forgot  my  genius,  and  laughed 
outright. 

And  with  good  cause,  too,  because  I  had  passed 
a  bum  quarter  on  the  door-keeper. 

Well,  I  and  my  sensitive  nature  decided  to  board 
a  car,  and  take  the  flying  trip. 

To  think  that  I,  Lizzie  McGuire,  the  genius  from 
the  sleepy  town  of  Chelsea,  should  loop  the  Loop. 

But  I  did. 

The  first  thing  I  remember  was  a  sensation  sim- 
ilar to  the  one  felt  by  passengers  when  an  elevated 
train  stops.  It  threw  me  back  about  two  feet,  all 
in  a  bunch,  and  I  could  hear  the  seat  crack. 

Then  I  started  on  my  journey  heavenward. 


28      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

And  then,  oh,  then ! 

I  stood  balanced  between  sky  and  earth  and  on 
the  brink  of  the  most  entrancingly  steep  incline 
that  you  can  imagine. 

How  my  fat  heart  fluttered  1 

"  Let  her  go ! "  I  wimpered  with  my  angel  voice. 

And  the  attendant  gave  me  a  shove  and  a  start 
on  my  downward  trip. 

My  heart  turned  a  double  somersault  and  landed 
on  the  back  of  my  neck.  My  breath  came  and 
went  in  the  proverbial  short  pants. 

Down,  down,  down ! 

Gee  1     How  I  flew ! 

Such  sensations  I 

Oh!     Ah! 

Ugh! 

Wow  I 

Suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  the  track  came 
up  and  slapped  me  in  the  face.  A  thousand  little 
devils  seemed  to  be  pouring  ice-water  down  my 
collar  and  along  my  backbone. 

My  knees  flew  up. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      29 

My  head  flew  down. 

They  met. 

Such  a  headache ! 

As  I  whirled  over,  with  feet  up  and  head  down, 
I  felt  like  a  heavy-weight  acrobat  doing  his  turn 
over  six  elephants. 

Where,  oh,  where,  would  I  land  ? 

I  began  to  choose  my  pall-bearers. 

When  I  reached  the  downward  whirl  of  the 
confounded  Loop,  it  seemed  that  my  body  was  try- 
ing to  get  a  lap  or  two  ahead  of  my  head. 

It  seemed  as  though  four  horses  were  trying  to 
separate  me  from  the  lid  of  my  brain. 

The  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  flying  up  another 
incline  and  around  in  circles.  But  by  the  time  I 
reached  the  transfer  station  I  was  Lizzie  McGuire 
again. 

A  little  the  worse  for  wear,  perhaps,  but  still 
Liz,  I  left  the  Loop  and  walked  out  toward  the 
beach. 

Just  as  I  left  the  gate,  a  handsome  young  man 
smiled  at  me,  and  then  he  followed  me. 


30      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

I  turned  and  looked. 

He  smiled. 

So  did  I. 

He  came  close  to  me,  and  said,  "  Tell  me,  pretty 
maiden  "  — 

Then  I  woke  up  and  found  myself  wandering 
around  alone  on  the  streets  of  Chelsea. 

That's  my  luck  every  time. 

If  I  could  have  slept  a  few  minutes  longer  1 

Just  to  have  met  the  nice  young  man. 


JULY    FOUR 


July  4. 

Bang!!! 

I  awoke  with  a  start  this  morning. 

It  was  a  flying  start. 

Young  Patrick  jumped  into  the  glorious  Fourth 
by  setting  off  a  cannon  cracker  in  the  front  hall. 

It  shook  my  windows  and  it  jolted  me ;  and,  for- 
getting my  sedate  manners  and  my  two  hundred 
and  ninety  pounds  of  womankind,  I  leaped  from  my 
downy  couch  with  fear,  and  landed  on  a  tray  full  of 
dishes  that  had  been  left  from  my  supper  last 
night. 

Farewell,  dishes  and  tray  I 

Smithereens ! 

I  often  rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  gaze  out  of 
my  window  at  the  barrenness  of  Chelsea. 

But  I  do  not  always  get  out  of  bed  on  the  bounce 
as  I  did  this  morning. 

However,   this    morning,   with   the   excitement 


34      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

caused  by  a  cannon  cracker  and  a  tray  full  of 
broken  crockery,  I  was  unable  to  sleep  more,  so  I 
put  on  my  kimono  and  sat  by  the  window  to  dream. 

To-day  is  the  day  that  the  Americans  freed  this 
country  for  the  use  of  the  Irish,  so  you  may  see 
why  my  dreams  took  on  a  red,  white,  and  blue  hue. 

I  dreamed  that  the  clock  struck  nine  and  there 
came  a  rap  at  my  door. 

I  opened  it,  and  there  stood  a  young  man. 

My  Great  Snakes  1 

I  bade  him  enter,  and  said, — 

"  Whatst  wouldst  thoust,  Great  Snakes  ?  " 

"  It  is  you,  Lizzie  McGuire,  that  I  am  after,"  he 
said  in  a  soft,  melodious  voice ;  "  and  I  want  you  to 
put  on  your  glad  duds,  and  come  with  me.  We 
will  canoe  on  the  river." 

Oh,  how  my  two-ninety  did  tremble. 

"  You  cannot  lose  little  Lizzie,"  quoth  I. 

And  off  we  trolled  to  Riverside. 

He  had  a  lovely  canoe. 

But  it  lacked  beam  enough  for  me. 

I  am  a  very  wide  article ;  and,  try  as  I  would,  I 
could  not  squeeze  into  that  confounded  canoe. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      35 

Finally,  he  found  a  larger  one,  and  managed  to 
tuck  me  in. 

Then  off  we  went. 

There  was  a  good  crowd  on  the  river,  but  we 
managed  to  reach  midstream. 

All  at  once  we  tipped. 

"Trim  boat,  trim  boat,"  he  shouted. 

I  moved  my  foot  two  inches,  and  we  regained  our 
equilibrium. 

We  paddled  along  slowly,  as  my  Great  Snakes 
found  me  heavy  freight. 

I  smiled. 

I  chatted. 

I  giggled. 

I  did  everything  that  foolish,  popular  young 
girls  do ;  but  his  face  never  brightened. 

He  began  to  perspire. 

He  began  to  heave. 

"  This  paddle  seems  to  weigh  a  ton,"  he  said  at 
length. 

"  Or,  perhaps,  it  is  you,"  he  added,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow. 


36      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Men  are  so  cranky. 

Even  my  Great  Snakes  was  a  crank. 

He  worried  me. 

'  He  made  me  perspire,  too ;  and,  as  I  reached  to 
my  belt  for  my  kerchief,  I  must  have  moved  some 
part  of  my  bulky  anatomy. 

It  was  all  done  in  a  second. 

Kerplunk ! 

The  canoe  went  over  in  a  jiffy. 

And  I  went  with  it. 

So  did  my  Great  Snakes. 

"  O  Lord !  O  Lord !  oh,  help !  oh,  murder !  "  I 
murmured,  keeping  my  head  cool.  "  I'll  sink !  I'll 
drown  1 " 

But  I  didn't. 

The  canoe  sank ;  but  little  Liz  floated  like  a  cork, 
with  her  two  hundred  and  ninety  pounds'  displace- 
ment. 

The  police  boat  was  near,  and  they  threw  a  life 
preserver  to  my  young  man. 

They  threw  a  strong  rope  to  me,  and  preferred 
to  take  a  chance  at  towing  me  rather  than  lift  me 
to  the  deck. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      37 

They  could  not  pull  me  very  close  to  shore  be- 
fore I  scraped,  as  I  draw  about  six  feet  of  water 
when  I  am  afloat. 

Then  I  got  up,  walked  ashore  and  shook  myself 
like  a  little  Fido,  until  my  Great  Snakes,  damp  but 
game,  came  up  to  where  I  stood. 

We  found  that  we  were  in  Norumbega  Park ;  and 
he  was  ashamed  to  take  me  home,  as  we  both  looked 
like  ducked  rats. 

So  we  sat  in  the  sun,  and  dried. 

When  the  moisture  had  evaporated,  we  started 
for  a  walk. 

It  was  then  I  learned  the  make  of  my  escort's 
trousers. 

They  were  the  kind  that  you  can  see  in  front  of 
Salem  Street  stores. 

"  All  this  for  three  dollars." 

They  had  shrunk,  and  were  half-way  up  to  his 
knees. 

But  still  I  was  proud  of  my  Adonis. 

I  have  such  a  sensitive,  impressionistic  nature 
that  even  my  ducking  could  not  take  the  starch 
out  of  my  ardor. 


38      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

In  my  opinion,  he  was  a  bird. 

We  walked  around  to  look  at  the  animals. 

We  were  not  the  only  animals  in  the  park. 

As  we  stood  before  the  monkey  cage,  my  char- 
acter changed. 

I  felt  sure  I  saw  young  Pat  Gilhooly  hanging  to 
the  cage  and  shaking  the  wire  screen. 

He  shook  with  a  good  old  Irish  temper,  and  all 
at  once  it  gave  way,  and  with  a  crash  the  whole 
cage,  wire  and  all,  came  over  on  me. 

Oh! 

Then  I  woke  up  to  find  myself  in  Chelsea, — 
barren,  sleepy,  dead  Chelsea, —  and  sputtering 
around  me  was  a  pack  of  popping  fire-crackers  that 
Pat  had  tossed  into  my  bedroom. 

I  could  hear  his  retreating  footsteps  in  the  hall. 

The  son-of-a-gun. 


JULY    FIVE 


July  5. 

I  have  in  me  the  germs  of  a  corking  good  prize- 
fighter. 

If  I  were  a  man  and  could  earn  my  living  by 
righting,  you  can  gamble  that  the  world  would 
have  to  recognize  me  as  an  intense  heavy-weight. 

I  have  the  personality,  the  nature  of  a  Sullivan, 
a  Corbett,  a  Jeffries,  and  a  Sharkey. 

But  I  am  a  poor,  thirty-five-year-old  female.  I 
cannot  fight,  even  though  a  good  scrap  means 
easy  money, —  sixty  per  cent,  to  the  winner  and 
twenty  per  cent,  to  the  loser  of  the  gate  receipts. 

I  have  that  tenacious,  never-get-licked,  scrappy 
disposition  that  makes  prize-fighters  of  men. 

Now  I  would  like  to  be  such  a  man  as  is  Jimmie 
Flaherty,  the  "  Coffee  Cooler,"  of  Salem,  Mass. 

I  have  met  the  gentleman  once,  while  he  was 
visiting  the  family  of  his  sparring  partner  here  in 
the  sleepy  barrenness  of  Chelsea. 


42      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

I  have  twelve  printed,  pink-tinted  pictures  of 
Jimmie  that  I  keep  in  the  top  tray  of  my  old,  can- 
vas-backed trunk. 

They  were  taken  from  the  Police  Gazette. 

Often,  late  in  the  evening,  while  I  am  brewing 
a  cup  of  tea  in  a  kettle  over  the  gas-jet  in  my 
room,  I  take  these  pictures  from  my  trunk,  and 
place  them  in  graceful  array  along  the  edge  of  my 
washstand. 

Then  I  gaze  at  them  until  my  stout,  thirty-five- 
year-old  heart  flutters  like  an  aspen  leaf  before  an 
electric  fan. 

I  am  certainly  dead  stuck  on  Jimmie  Flaherty. 

He  is  a  regular  Napoleon  to  me. 

And  he  came  very  near  to  winning  the  Richard 
K.  Fox  belt.  He  did,  so  he  did. 

As  I  look  at  his  photographs,  I  fall  in  love  with 
him  more  and  more. 

The  twelve  pictures  of  him  that  I  have  are  all 
alike,  but  so  different. 

In  the  first  he  is  a  strapping  big  fellow,  posed  as 
if  for  a  cigarette  picture.  I  fall  in  love  with  him. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      43 

In  the  second  he  stands  with  his  left  drawn 
high  and  his  right  drawn  ready  for  an  upper  cut. 
I  fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  third  he  looks  as  though  he  could  lick 
anything  from  Chelsea  to  Roxbury.  I  fall  in  love 
with  him. 

In  the  fourth  his  eyes  are  bright,  as  though  he 
had  them  on  the  check  he  will  receive  from  the 
management  after  the  bout  is  over,  whether  he 
wins  or  loses.  I  fall  in  love  with  him  —  and  the 
check. 

In  the  fifth  he  looks  like  a  lobster.  I  fall  in 
love  with  him. 

In  the  sixth  he  is  greasy,  and  looks  as  though 
he  needed  the  money.  I  fall  in  love  with  him  just 
the  same. 

In  the  seventh  he  seems  groggy,  and  I  am  sure 
a  soft  tap  on  the  solar  plexus  would  put  him  down 
and  out.  I  fall  in  love  with  him. 

In  the  eighth  he  looks  sleepy,  and  the  night  be- 
fore he  no  doubt  spent  in  Chelsea.  Still  I  fall  in 
love  with  him. 


44      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

In  the  ninth  he  reminds  me  of  a  butcher  in  a 
South  Omaha  packing-house.  I  fall  in  love  with 
him. 

In  the  tenth  he  seems  as  fresh  as  a  conductor  on 
the  Winchester  and  Woburn  electric  cars.  I  fall 
in  love  with  him. 

In  the  eleventh  he  looks  as  though  his  wife  had 
gone  through  his  pockets  the  night  before.  I  fall 
in  love  with  him  (and  I  hope  his  wife  will  not  see 
this). 

In  the  twelfth  he  is  throwing  out  his  chest  and 
holding  up  his  head  as  though  he  was  afraid  of 
spilling  his  load.  He  looks  as  though  Baltimore 
could  not  turn  out  enough  good  old  rye  to  fill  his 
tank,  and  his  chin  is  thrown  out  with  the  confi- 
dence of  a  man  who  never  takes  a  chaser  after 
downing  a  fifteen-cent  drink.  He  seems  about  to 
say,  "  Any  old  sour  mash.  That's  all."  Oh,  how 
vividly  in  love  with  him  I  fall ! 

I  love  a  man  who  can  hold  his  refreshments  like 
a  gentleman. 

As  I  sit  here  with  my  feet  on  the  gas-jet  and 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      45 

gaze  at  the  twelve  Police  Gazette  pictures  of  Jim- 
mie,  I  think  that  he  is  a  lallapaloosa. 

He  reminds  me  of  my  Great  Snakes. 

He  reminds  me  of  the  young  man  I  have  pict- 
ured who  will  come  and  take  me  home  with  him 
some  day. 

As  I  look  out  of  the  window  and  gaze  at  a  tene- 
ment house  and  a  cop  who  is  asleep  on  his  beat,  I 
wonder, —  yes,  I  cogitate. 

Will  my  Jimmie  Flaherty  ever  come  ? 

Some  day,  my  Great  Snakes,  some  day. 

Damn  it  I 


JULY    SIX 


July  6. 

I  have  said  that  I  am  alone  in  this  world. 

I  have  made  an  error,  as  I  am  not  quite  alone. 

I  have  one  hanger-on  that  I  cannot  lose,  and  she 
manages  to  keep  herself  around  my  vicinity  most 
of  the  time. 

She  is  the  lady  who  does  my  washing,  and  I  call 
her  my  "  laundry  lady." 

I  sometimes  call  her  my  ammonia  lady,  as  she 
uses  some  sort  of  a  chemical  in  the  water  when  she 
does  my  clothes  up.  It  coaxes  holes  in  white 
goods,  I  know  that. 

Anyway,  she  is  as  different  from  me  as  day  is 
from  night.  She  believes  in  hanging  around  a  per- 
son who  owes  her  two  dollars  for  washing,  and  she 
believes  in  jollying  the  reticent  ones  until  they  come 
up  with  the  mazuma. 

My  beliefs  are  along  the  lines  of  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent creed.  If  a  person  owes  me  money,  and  I 


50      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

cannot  get  it  for  the  asking, —  well,  give  me  an  axe. 
I'll  take  it  from  them  by  violent  separation. 

Even  if  I  have  to  use  a  gun. 

But  my  laundry  lady  is  all  to  the  good 

She  taught  me  all  I  know  about  how  to  do  up 
starched  clothes. 

But  she  cannot  extract  money  from  me  unless 
she  gives  me  gas. 

I  am  odd  and  a  genius,  and  I  never  pay  bills. 

I  am  a  thief,  too. 

My  father  was  a  second-story  man,  so  I  guess. 
I  come  by  my  propensity  for  pinching  things  in  a 
perfectly  natural  way. 

I  am  not  wealthy  enough  to  be  called  a  klepto- 
maniac. Still  there  is  some  spirit  hanging  about 
me  that  makes  me  love  to  annex  things,  as  Dan 
Daly  would  say. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  I  swiped  three  dollars 
from  the  lobster  that  lives  in  the  flat  just  below  us. 

You  see  the  old  man  I  refer  to  is  a  veteran  of 
the  Spanish  War,  and  he  draws  a  pension. 

One  of  his  legs  is  shorter  than  the  other  because 
it  was  broken  in  the  war,  and  had  a  bum  set. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      51 

He  broke  it  while  running  away  from  a  skirmish. 

Somehow  he  managed  to  get  the  pension,  but 
the  pension  officers  did  not  know  which  way  he 
was  running  when  he  received  the  fracture. 

The  old  war-horse  loves  his  liquor,  but  hates  to 
go  out  and  get  it. 

He  has  the  Chelsea  spirit,  and  it  pains  him  to 
move  around  much. 

One  day  he  called  me  down  to  his  flat,  and  I 
went. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  dear  Alphonse  ? " 
I  said  with  my  usual  happy  smile  and  sunny  look. 

"  Liz,"  he  said  in  his  kind  old  way,  casting  a 
squinting  look  at  my  thirty-five  years  and  two  hun- 
dred and  ninety  pounds  of  womankind,  "  Liz,  I 
want  you  to  get  me  a  gallon  of  good  old  Bourbon. 
As  I  know  your  fair  young  palate  is  that  of  a 
genius  and  a  connoisseur,  I  intrust  these  four  bones 
of  the  republic  to  your  chubby  hand ;  and,  if  you 
will  hie  yourself  into  the  city  of  Boston  and  ex- 
change them  for  four  quarts  of  the  '  best  made,' 
you  will  do  your  dear  Alphonse  a  great  favor." 


52      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Thereupon  he  thrust  into  my  lunch-grappler  four 
crisp  one-dollar  green  boys. 

I  put  on  my  gray  crepe  de  chine,  and  took  the 
next  car  for  the  big  burg. 

My  wonderful  mind  was  in  deep  cogitation 
meanwhile. 

Here  was  my  chance  to  rake  off  a  seventy-five 
per  cent,  commission. 

I  am  a  thief  —  and  a  wonder  at  figures. 

When  I  reached  town,  I  went  straightway  to  my 
brother,  the  bar-keep. 

I  asked  him  the  price  of  corn  juice. 

4 '  De  prices  vary,  Liz,"  he  said.  "Anywhere 
f rum  one  samoleon  ter  six  f er  a  gallon. ' ' 

"How  about  the  dollar  stuff?"  quoth  I. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "them's  fair  goods,  them's 
fair  goods.  Them's  der  kind  we  serves  ter 
cabbies  and  waiters  at  10  cents  per  throw.  But 
what  do  youse  want  wid  hilarious  liquids  ?  Youse 
are  not  hitting  it  up,  are  youse,  Liz  ?" 

Oh,  how  the  language  of  brother  Bill  does  rile 
me! 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      53 

And  how  I  do  think  of  that  sixty-three  when- 
ever I  see  him. 

If  I  could  only  get  my  hands  on  that  chunk  of 
dough  that  I  so  foolishly  let  slip  from  my  pocket- 
book! 

What  would  my  laundry  lady  say  if  I  did  get 
it? 

She  would  quote  Kip,  and  spout,  "Payl  Pay  I 
Pay  "  !  I  suppose. 

Anyway,  I  got  him  to  pour  me  out  a  gallon  of 
one-dollar  fire-water,  and  then  he  pasted  an  Old 
Crow  label  on  the  demijohn  at  my  suggestion. 

I  took  the  stuff  to  the  old  vet,  and  he  smacked 
his  lips  as  he  let  it  slide  down  his  red  gullet.  He 
said  he  always  did  like  Old  Crow. 

"Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be  wise. " 

But  I  am  wise  to  the  fact  that  little  Lizzie  has 
three  one-dollar  bills  tucked  away  in  her  purse ; 
and,  when  the  vet  and  I  drank  to  the  health  of  the 
pension  office,  I  sighed, 

"  After  you,  my  dear  Alphonse." 


JULY    SEVEN 


July 7. 

I  have  never  told  you  about  the  joint  where  I 
hang  out. 

In  this  flat  where  I  drag  out  this  accursed, 
gosh-hanged,  gol-darned  existence  of  mine,  there 
lives  a  family  whose  uncouth  ways  and  primeval 
manners  grate  upon  my  sensitive,  genius  nerves. 

I  have  two  rooms,  with  stove  heat,  oil  light, 
and  the  free  use  of  the  family  bath-room  in  this 
flat,  for  which  I  hand  out  six,  juicy  dollars  per 
week. 

Oh,  how  I  do  weary  of  the  Nothingness ! 

If  a  young  man  who  would  be  my  Great  Snake 
should  knock  at  my  parlor  door  right  now  and 
offer  to  take  me  unto  his  heart,  I  would  say,  "  In 
a  minute, ' '  so  quickly  that  he  would  develop  heart 
disease. 

But  I  was  talking  of  my  rooms  and  our  flat,  and 
I  must  not  let  my  mind  wander  to  love,  sweet  love. 


58      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

As  I  said,  I  have  free  use  of  our  bath-room; 
and  I  hate  to  enter  the  dreariness  of  the  place. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilhooly,  from  whom  I  rent  my 
rooms,  and  the  three  little  Gilhoolys  persist  in 
using  the  bath-room  as  a  depository  for  their  foot- 
wear. 

I  can  stand  tooth-brushes,  but  deliver  me  from 
shoes. 

Shoes !     Shoes !     Shoes ! 

Oh,  the  dreariness  and  the  wofulness  of  the 
Nothingness  in  this  barrenness  and  sleepiness  of  a 
Chelsea  bath-room  I 

I  have  been  told  that  one  of  the  horrors  of  the 
Inquisition,  in  which  the  pinnacle  of  cruelty  was 
reached  and  perched,  was  the  forcing  of  victims  to 
read  newspapers  that  were  filled  with  cheap  patent 
medicine  advertisements. 

Well,  this  punishment  was  not  one,  two,  three 
as  horrible  as  it  is,  compared  to  the  tortuous 
spasms  that  run  up  my  vertebra  whenever  I  see 
those  shoes  in  our  bath-room. 

My  very  pathetic  philosophy  cannot  stand  for  a 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      59 

line  of  broken-out,  run-down  shoes  that  extends 
half-way  around  a  dingy  bath-room. 

There  are,  in  the  bunch,  three  ancient  Congress 
boots  that  belong  to  the  old  man  Gilhooly.  The 
side  elastics  are  has-beens  and  merely  suggestions 
of  their  former  worthiness. 

The  sides  of  each  shoe  are,  I  should  judge, 
eight  inches  apart ;  and  the  entrance  apertures  are 
big  enough  to  admit  a  ton  of  coal  without  being 
touched. 

Old  Gilhooly  could  put  them  on  the  floor,  take 
a  run,  and  jump  into  them  without  pouching  any- 
thing but  the  soles. 

They  are  what  one  would  call  seven-masters, 
and  they  do  jolt  my  artistic  nature  muchly. 

I  said  above  that  there  were  three  boots. 

These  are  the  remnants  of  two  pairs. 

Mrs.  Gilhooly  used  the  other  shoe  for  a  flower- 
pot; and  it  now  hangs,  beautifully  gilded,  before 
the  dining-room  window,  containing  a  blooming 
sweet  potato,  with  a  weeping  willow  effect. 

I  do  not  blame  it  for  weeping.  It  brings  tears 
to  my  own  crafty  eyes. 


60      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Next  in  the  line  come  a  pair  of  high  button 
boots,  with  but  few  buttons  left,  a  pair  of  $1.98 
Oxfords,  and  two  pairs  of  cracked,  patched,  dilapi- 
dated, passe",  once-upon-a-time,  out-in-front,  out-in- 
back,  out-on-the-sides,  high-heeled  slippers. 

This  display  belongs  to  the  exhibit  of  Mrs. 
Gilhooly;  and,  as  I  gaze  at  them  backed  up 
against  the  bath-room  wall,  it  sets  my  odd,  phil- 
osophic mind  to  work,  and  I  think  great  thoughts. 

Such  thoughts  as  will  bring  me  fame. 

Such  thoughts  as  will  make  my  name  and  my 
writings  the  watchwords  of  future  generations. 

I  think,  "  Such  a  sloppy  weather!  " 

Following  Mommer  Gilhooly 's  footwear  come 
two  pairs  of  muddy,  laceless  hoof  coverings  of  a 
smaller  size.  These  belong  to  young  Patrick 
Gilhooly,  and  the  sight  of  them  makes  my  thirty- 
five  years  of  womankind  tremble  with  contempt. 

I  have  the  natural  aversion  to  a  small  boy  that 
is  part  of  the  make-up  of  every  maiden  of  thirty- 
five,  and  in  Patrick  we  have  the  essence  of  the 
mischievous,  red-headed  Irish  kid. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      61 

His  hair  is  as  bright  a  crimson  as  the  sunsets  in 
cheap  tea  chromos. 

His  face  is  hidden  behind  a  screen  of  freckles. 

To  see  him  once  is  to  remember  him  always ; 
and,  as  I  see  those  shoes,  I  can  imagine  Pat  in 
them. 

So  vivid  is  my  imagination  that  yesterday  I 
pictured  him  so  completely  in  his  boots  that  I  in- 
voluntarily grabbed  a  poker  that  was  lying  on  the 
coal  in  the  bath-tub. 

The  remainder  of  the  shoe  line  is  made  up  of 
odd,  ramshackle  pedal  cases  that  have  seen  better 
days  —  many  years  ago. 

Oh,  how  the  gray  matter  of  my  mind  is  pounded 
and  mauled  by  the  sight  of  that  shoe  line  1 

Why  am  I  so  fussy  ? 

It  is  because  I  am  so  odd. 

And  I  am  odd  because  it  pays. 

I  need  the  money,  and  I  am  frank  enough  to 
say  so. 

But  those  shoes ! 

Gee! 


JULY     EIGHT 


July  8. 

The  hamlet  of  Chelsea  presents  a  nifty  field  to  a 
student  of  humanity  and  human  nature.  Such  a 
mixed  bunch  of  gazabes  are  presented  by  no  other 
town  in  the  United  States,  I  will  gamble  on  that. 

Think  over  all  the  places  you  know,  such  as 
Butte,  Omaha,  Saugus,  and  other  big  cities,  and 
you  cannot  find  such  a  motley  group  of  burghers 
as  Chelsea  turns  out. 

We  have  a  spicy  conglomeration  of  Irish,  Ger- 
mans, Africans,  Spiritualists,  Christian  Scientists, 
and  Card  Readers. 

We  have  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men ;  and,  as 
I  am  an  old  residenter,  I  am  on  to  them  all. 

How  weary  I  am  of  the  Vacuity  of  it  all.  (That 
is  another  good  word  I  have  registered  to  my 
credit.) 

Now  I  have  the  corner  room  of  the  corner  flat 
in  a  corner  tenement  house,  and  there  is  not  much 


66      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

doing  on  the  streets  that  butt  up  to  the  building 
that  I  am  not  on  to. 

I  will  describe  some  of  my  neighbors. 

There  is  an  Irishman  who  lives  with  his  family 
of  eight  healthy  sons,  and  the  old  Shamrock  is  a 
roustabout  for  fair. 

He  drives  a  brewery  wagon,  and  I  guess  he 
must  get  paid  on  Friday  nights. 

I  can  vouch  for  the  fact  that  he  never  gets  to 
work  on  Saturdays. 

As  he  rolls  into  the  street  Friday  evenings,  it 
would  appear  that  he  had  made  his  last  delivery  of 
bottled  goods  down  his  own  red  gullet. 

He  walks  like  a  sea  serpent  and  sings  like  a 
steam  Calliope. 

One  can  hear  "  Comb  back  to  Erin  "  for  four 
blocks  on  every  Friday  night  if  he  will  come  out 
our  way  about  nine  o'clock. 

Then  there  is  a  German  who  lives  on  the  next 
street.  He  walks  around  the  block  for  exercise 
six  times  each  clear  evening. 

I  should  say  he  measured  about  six  front  feet  by 
seven  feet  deep. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      67 

He  looks  like  a  young  balloon. 

All  the  small  boys  yell,  as  he  passes,  "  Cut  the 
guy  ropes,  Bill,  and  don't  drop  the  parachute  until 
you  are  at  least  four  hundred  high." 

But  he  does  not  mind.  Dutchy  is  immovable ; 
and  I  guess  he  would  smoke  that  pipe  that  looks 
like  a  golf  club,  even  if  the  city  was  on  fire. 

I  do  not  know  any  Africans,  but  a  blind  man  in 
Chelsea  can  hardly  help  from  seeing  our  colored 
population. 

And  the  hundreds  that  I  pass  every  day  make 
my  wonderful  brain  feel  like  a  nutmeg  on  a  grater. 

But  where  Chelsea  shines  is  in  her  collection  of 
freaks. 

She  has  more  Spiritualists,  Christian  Scientists, 
and  Fortune  Tellers  to  the  square  inch  than  any 
other  berg  on  earth. 

There  is  a  woman  in  the  flat  above  us  who 
claims  to  be  a  spiritualistic  medium. 

Of  course,  she  is  a  bluff  like  the  rest  of  her 
gang ;  but  she  is  dead  wise,  all  right,  all  right. 

She  knows  how  to  squeeze  dimes  out  of  easy 


68      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

marks  by  jollying  them  into  the  belief  that  she  can 
talk  with  the  ones  who  have  cashed  in  their  chips, 
and  she  is  making  easy  money. 

She  got  me  into  one  of  her  soirees  one  night, 
and  told  me  she  could  put  me  in  communication 
with  any  old  has-been  that  I  could  think  of ;  and  I 
told  her  I  would  like  to  talk  with  the  late  Katie 
Hooligan. 

She  looked  Kate  up  in  the  directory,  and  found 
that  her  number  was  4,71 1  Hades  ;  but,  somehow, 
she  could  not  ring  her  up.  I  guess  the  wires  were 
crossed. 

There  was  nothing  doing  in  the  Kate  line  for 
me ;  and  Kate  owed  me  $2.80  when  she  left,  too. 

That  is  why  I  wanted  to  talk  to  her. 

Then  I  know  a  woman  who  is  a  Christian  Sci- 
entist. 

She  tells  me  she  is  a  disciple  of  a  certain  Mane 
Waddy,  the  great  mogul  of  the  twentieth  century, 
new-fangled  fanaticism. 

She  says  that  this  Waddy  woman  has  written 
several  books  that  tell  why  everything  is  nothing. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      69 

I  guess  Mrs.  Waddy  does  her  writing  in  Chelsea. 

The  C.  S.  woman  that  I  know  says  that  Mrs. 
Waddy  is  just  completing  a  new  book  entitled 
"  Follow  me,  and  you  will  wear  Diamonds,  or,  How 
I  catch  a  Lobster." 

The  C.  S.  woman  came  to  me  last  week  and  told 
me  that  nothing  is.  We  only  think  we  are.  Pain 
is  a  cinch.  We  only  think  it  is. 

Such  a  foolishness  1 

And  two  days  later  she  called  on  me,  and  asked 
me  if  I  knew  any  good  painless  dentist  in  Boston. 

Wouldn't  that  jar  you  ? 

As  for  our  Card  Readers,  I  know  several  by 
sight ;  but,  as  I  think  they  are  even  worse  fools  than 
I,  I  cut  them  out. 

We  have  all  sorts  of  guys  in  this  town,  let  me 
tell  you. 

Do  you  wonder  that  the  barrenness  of  it  all  is 
wearing  my  two  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  to  a 
shadow  ? 

(See  frontispiece.) 


JULY    NINE 


July  9. 

There  are  several  things  in  this  world  that  make 
me  dead  sore. 

Here  I  am,  of  womankind  and  thirty-five  years, 
looking  for  a  young  man  who  will  make  me  his 
own  little  spare-rib  of  two  hundred  and  ninety 
pounds  ;  but  still  I  have  some  things  in  mind  for 
which  I  entertain  a  decided  antipathy.  (Good 
word,  that  last,  isn't  it  ?) 

There  are  things  that  we  see  and  bump  against 
every  day,  and  many  of  them  jolt  me  terribly. 

Often  that  wonderful  mind  of  mine  chants  a  lit- 
any of  its  own,  and  it  goes  something  like  this. 

From  Chelsea,  from  Roxbury,  from  Camden, 
N.J.,  from  Council  Bluffs,  from  Butte ;  Great 
Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  little  Fidos  with  twisted  mainsprings,  from 
bar-tenders  who  persist  in  putting  cherries  in  dry 


74      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Martinis,  from  girls  who  order  chicken  a  la  Mary- 
land in  winter ;  Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  women  who  wear  blue  dresses,  green 
veils,  and  high-heeled  slippers  on  the  streets,  from 
car  conductors  who  wear  diamond  rings,  from  liv- 
ing pictures,  women's  orchestras,  and  the  biograph ; 
Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  hotels  that  expect  guests  to  pay  their 
waiters,  from  postal  cards,  from  letters  written  in 
lead  pencil ;  Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  house-breakers  that  work  while  you  sleep ; 
Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  the  man  who  employs  a  stenographer  with 
hair  of  a  different  color  than  his  wife's,  from  water 
cart  drivers ;  Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  the  books  of  William  Shakespeare  and 
Nick  Carter,  from  the  woman  who  takes  her  dog 
on  shopping  trips,  from  cucumbers  and  milk ;  Great 
Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  baked  beans,  brown  bread,  and  Boston 
blue  blood,  from  swell  palaces  built  in  dumps,  from 
transplanted  castles ;  Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      75 

From  young  men  who  rubber  on  rainy  days, 
from  street  organs  that  play  "The  Maiden's 
Prayer  "  ;  Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  henpecked  husbands,  from  the  Elevated 
Road,  from  10,  20,  and  30  cent,  melodramas; 
Great  Snakes,  deliver  me. 

From  faked  prize  fights,  from  swelled-head  State 
senators,  from  gossiping  women  who  get  you  in 
trouble  "  for  your  own  good  "  ;  Great  Snakes,  de- 
liver me. 

From  men  and  women  who  smell  of  sen-sen, 
from  club  women  who  know  it  all ;  Great  Snakes, 
deliver  me. 

And  so  on  and  on  and  on,  on,  on. 

But  I  would  stand  for  all  these  things  willingly 
if  I  could  have  the  one  great  wish  of  the  present 
moment  gratified. 

I  wish  I  had  a  glass  of  beer,  some  potato  salad, 
and  a  hot  Frankfurter. 

Give  me  these,  and  I  will  sit  at  continuous  shows 
all  day,  and  enjoy  myself. 

I  was  just  now  reciting  this  litany  of  mine  when 


76      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

Pat  Gilhooly,  the  pride  of  the  household,  came 
bouncing  into  my  boudoir,  and  told  me  that  his 
mother  had  just  received  a  case  of  wet  goods  from 
Boston. 

I  could  have  embraced  the  child  in  my  Hap- 
piness. 

Patrick  is  too  old  to  have  any  of  his  first  teeth 
and  too  young  to  have  any  of  his  second  teeth. 

He  smiled  at  me  lovingly ;  and,  as  he  parted  his 
face,  it  seemed  as  though  his  features  were  trying 
to  leave  each  other. 

The  upper  and  lower  halves  of  his  facial  expres- 
sion appeared  to  be  trying  hard  to  get  a  divorce 
from  each  other. 

My  heart  would  have  gone  out  to  the  boy, 
were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  I  feared  he  would 
swallow  it. 

However,  I  went  in,  and  quaffed  the  flowing  bowl 
with  Mrs.  G. 

It  was  fine. 

I  forgot  all  about  the  confounded  litany. 


JULY   TEN 


July  10. 

I  find  that  I  am  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
great  big  bluff. 

"After  the  large  show  we  give  a  grand  stage 
concert  in  the  main  tent.  Agents  will  now  pass 
among  you  with  tickets.  Reserved  seats,  ten 
cents." 

This  is  what  we  hear  at  the  circus,  and  I  feel  that 
I  am  much  on  the  order  of  the  concert  performers 
who  bunco  the  reserved  seat  occupants. 

As  I  look  back  over  my  diary  and  read  what  I 
have  written,  I  can  plainly  see  that  I  am  a  bluff,  a 
fool,  and  a  liar. 

But  there  are  others,  and  there  is  consolation  in 
that. 

I  said  I  was  a  liar,  but  in  reality  I  am  only  a 
fibber. 

I  have  written  a  lot  of  fibs  in  my  diary,  and, 
like  myself,  it  is  all  a  bluff;  but,  if  people  go 


80      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

wild  over  young  girls  who  seek  notoriety  by  writing 
slush  about  themselves,  why  should  I  not  make  a 
stab  at  selling  a  few  diaries  ? 

I  am  looking  for  Happiness,  and  meanwhile  I  am 
looking  for  my  share  of  the  filthy  lucre. 

A  thin,  fine  vapor  of  bluff  hangs  over  me  as  I 
write ;  and  it  bids  me  choke  off,  as  the  people  of  to- 
day know  when  they  have  had  enough. 

I  could  be  breezy,  I  suppose,  and  cover  three 
hundred  and  twenty  pages  with  "  bluff  and  stuff," 
and  then  my  diary  would  sell  at  bookstores  for 
$1.10  net. 

But  what's  the  use  ? 

I  am  too  charitable  to  do  that. 

I  have  lived  my  thirty-five  years  buried  in  an 
environment  that  has  differed  greatly  from  the  one 
I  would  have  chosen,  had  I  been  able. 

It  has  been  my  desire  from  childhood  to  be  a 
ballet  dancer. 

Ballet  dancers  are  bluffs,  you  know. 

But  I  would  not  have  to  bluff. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  I  am  a  little  too 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      81 

big  to  be  a  coryphe'e.  So,  you  see,  I  could  not  bluff 
with  force. 

I  have  enough  "  form  "  for  three  ballet  dancers. 

However,  I  never  disclose  my  real  self  to  the 
gaping  crowds. 

I  decided  long  ago  to  devote  my  time  to  litera- 
ture, because  I  know  that  my  style  and  diction  are 
without  rivals  in  this  country  to-day. 

What  care  I  for  the  remarks  of  the  people  ? 

Have  I  not  been  told  that  my  wonderful  genius 
for  writing  is  absolutely  perfect  ? 

Two  of  the  greatest  writers  the  world  has  ever 
seen  have  said  so. 

It  happened  that  one  of  my  essays  entitled 
"  Cause  and  Effect ;  or,  Pie  and  Indigestion,"  was 
read  at  a  spiritualistic  conference  when  the  spirits 
of  Cicero,  Catullus,  and  Virgil  were  present. 

After  it  was  finished,  these  three  great  German 
poets  cried,  "  Bravo  1  Bravo  I  Lizzie  is  a  genius  1 
Such  writings  and  word  pictures !  " 

Then  why  should  I  do  anything  but  write  ? 

I  am  frank,  very  frank,  and  I  say  what  I  think. 


82      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

I  can  truthfully  say  that  I  have  never  taken  a 
bribe.  Never  have  I  taken  a  cent  with  the  agree- 
ment that  I  would  coincide  with  the  views  of 
others. 

But  I  am  trusting  that  my  luck  may  change. 

Offer  me  a  dollar  to  say  that  black  is  white,  and 
see  how  quickly  I  develop  color-blindness. 

Taking  my  cue  from  authors  who  have  gone 
before,  I  will  put  down  any  words  or  collection  of 
thoughts  that  my  publishers  think  will  sell. 

You  can  bet  your  life  on  that ! 

What  Lizzie  Maguire  is  looking  for  is  Fame  — 
with  a  capital  "  F." 

Who  can  tell  but  that  I  may  yet  travel  from  city 
to  city,  and  be  wined,  dined,  and  looked  at  as  a 
freak,  and  I  will  carry  my  bluff  along  with  me. 

Oh,  to  be  an  author  and  a  press  agent,  all  rolled 
into  one  1 

It  would  not  only  mean  Fame,  but  Dough ;  and 
I  am  frank  enough  to  say  that  that  is  what  little 
Lizzie  is  out  for. 

My  predecessors  have  left  that  confession  out  of 
their  diaries. 


The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire      83 

But  it  is  a  ten  to  one  shot  that  they  have  all  had 
their  pocket-books  receivingly  open,  as  they  craftily 
laughed  up  their  sleeves. 

In  laying  bare  myself  and  my  genius,  I  hope  I 
have  not  produced  a  wrong  impression  on  your 
mind. 

I  have  said  that  I  am  thirty-five. 

But  I  have  also  said  that  I  am  a  liar,  so  I  may 
be  forty-five. 

I  have  explained  that  I  consisted  of  two  hundred 
and  ninety  pounds  of  womankind. 

You  can  verify  that  by  looking  at  the  picture  on 
the  front  page  of  this  book. 

I  have  said  I  am  a  thief. 

But  I  am  a  liar,  so  I  may  be  a  Sunday-school 
teacher  for  all  you  know. 

If  I  were  all  the  things  I  have  said  I  am,  would 
you,  kind  reader,  put  much  faith  in  me  and  my 
words  and  my  book  ? 

Not  on  your  tintype  ! 

It  takes  narrow-minded  persons  to  think  that  the 
great  American  public  is  sufficiently  narrow-minded 


84      The  Story  of  Lizzie  McGuire 

to  take  them  seriously  when  they  make  a  bluff  that 
they  are  stars  and  self -discovered  geniuses,  just  be- 
cause they  sling  a  pint  or  two  of  ink  on  a  few  white 
pages. 

Great  Snakes,  deliver  me !  !  !  1 


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